


If I Die Young

by truthtakestime



Category: White Collar
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Sara!whump, Snipers, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-31
Updated: 2012-08-17
Packaged: 2017-11-11 03:47:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/474173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/truthtakestime/pseuds/truthtakestime
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This was not how Sara had planned her day. It was supposed to be relaxed, quiet, romantic. There were <i>not</i> supposed to be police barriers, tearful bystanders, or snipers on the roof taking potshots at her!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Crimson

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: White Collar and all of its characters, locations, etc. belong to their respective owners; I'm just borrowing. No copyright infringement intended!!
> 
> Note: This story came around from the prompt “Crimson”; I begged it off a friend, let it sit for about three days, and then decided that Sara needed to get shot. Then it sort of almost exploded on me and demanded to be at least three parts, total. Other two should be up within the week. 
> 
> Thanks, as always, to my brilliant and ever-patient beta, **IuvenesCor** ; any mistakes that may remain are mine, not hers!!

It was supposed to be so simple, Sara thought, staring accusingly at the bright red stain growing across the white of her blouse. (Stupid stain. This was her favorite shirt!) She was supposed to file some paperwork, meet Neal for lunch, and then again that night for something more intimate. There were _not_ supposed to be any problems, any police, any snipers on the roof taking potshots at them! And no crying. People standing behind a police barrier crying from fear was not part of her plan.

Neal wasn't supposed to be crying, either; but in a morbid sort of way, she was comforted by the thought. It meant that she wasn't alone in the world, that there was someone to care about her after she was gone. And that was encouraging.

It was a pity about their lunch, though. She would really have liked to have a final chat (she always did leave things unsaid; but she'd planned to do things differently with him.), enjoying a final glass of wine as she teased him about the Raphael or reminded him that she had never tasted his soup. She would have liked to finish their (unexpected) last kiss; it really was rude of the shooter not to wait until she'd had that, at least.

Sara supposed that it did make sense in the end, though. She'd always known that one of these days her job was going to catch up with her, and she could either quit or go down. She wished it hadn't happened when she was with Neal. She hadn't expected it to happen so soon.

She should have learned, with her sister, that you never really had the time you that you thought you did.

Through a hazy cloud of white noise, Sara could hear the sound of sirens, shrieking and wailing almost as loud as Neal's ragged breaths. Then suddenly he was gone, and there were hands pressing on her chest (Idiots! Did they miss the bullet in her torso?), a mask being forced over her mouth, cold, sharp metal digging around in her insides. Sara was vaguely irritated with the medics; couldn't they see she was dying? Why did they have to cause her _more_ pain when she was a goner anyways?

“ _Stop it_ ,” she protested, or at least tried to. The pain and shock combined were making it hard to tell what was real anymore. But she didn't want them to delay the inevitable, she just wanted to get it over with. She was never one for long goodbyes –

When she felt the sharp jab of a needle in her arm, she was pretty sure she slapped a medic.

The pressure on her chest eased abruptly, and she felt herself being lifted and carried towards a gaping hole that was probably just the ambulance door. (When had they gotten her onto a stretcher?) She thought that she caught a glimpse of Neal's face before it sucked her in; his skin pale and smeared with vivid scarlet and his perfect hair messy and flopping in his eyes. His eyes. She didn't think that she'd ever seen his eyes look so fantastically blue...

...Then she was inside the ambulance, and Neal was gone. The medics were still working on her (Really was hopeless, shouldn't waste the resources.), but Sara couldn't understand them anymore. Their voices and that obnoxious beeping of the medical monitors all became distant, fading, and the faces yelling and worrying above her became disjointed images which no longer mattered. The pain, too, was receding, leaving in its wake a gentle warmth that was almost comforting.

With what little Sara still had in her, she could feel herself drifting, floating away. She looked down again, saw the blood on her shirt (hope it'll come out.), and stared until the world faded and all that she could see was red. Then white. Then black.


	2. Ivory

Neal sat on the edge of an uncomfortable plastic chair, elbows resting on his knees and hands clasped under his chin. His left leg bounced restlessly under him. His body felt charged with energy (ready to run), but his eyes were glued to Sara, the slow rise and fall of her chest under the white sheets. She was the only thing holding him here; the sterile white walls of the hospital felt too much like a prison for him to relax, even if her life was not still at stake.

Flashbacks from the day before, painfully vivid, played out on the colorless background.

_Kissing Sara in front of the restaurant, something witty waiting on his tongue when it was finished with her mouth. Before it can happen, a dull thunk, a gasp, the taste of blood in his mouth when it shouldn't be._

He hadn't seen the shooter, but he caught Sara as she fell, blood pouring out of a hole in her chest and her eyes wide with shock. He'd panicked.

_On his knees, her head in his lap, begging for someone to get help. He should try to call 911, Peter, someone, but he's far to disoriented to even remember his phone. All he can do is hold his hands over the wound and try to stop the bleeding._

Neal had done everything he knew how to do – which wasn't much, but she was alive when the ambulance arrived. With Peter, which came as a surprise, but Neal didn't ask why.

_Peter pulls him back as the medics rush forward, and Neal fights him. He doesn't want to leave her (too much like losing Kate). He argues until Peter threatens to lock him up “for his own safety”._

Peter hadn't locked him up. He brought him to the hospital (outside of his radius) and stayed with him until she was out of surgery and resting in the white room. Neal was grateful for that, glad that they were letting him stay with her. He wasn't being blamed for this either, which made a change from the last time (though he could care less about that now).

He looked up briefly as Peter came back into the room, bringing with him what smelled almost like coffee (looked almost like sludge) and a clean t-shirt that he handed to Neal, insisting that he change out of his bloody dress-shirt. Neal protested; what if something happened with her while he was gone? Peter reminded him that she was unconscious and that Neal had never been all that concerned with modesty, anyways. Neal obeyed after that.

Peter waited until his order was carried out to suggest that Neal try to get some rest.

 _No_. Neal refused to close his eyes. Maybe if he'd had them opened he would have seen the shooter, could have kept her safe. But he hadn't and he didn't, and he'd spent the last thirty-six hours determined not to make that mistake again. He couldn't rest, not until he knew for sure that she was okay. Peter had no right to ask that of him.

No amount of arguing, ordering, or logic would sway Neal, so Peter let it go and forced him to drink the motor oil-coffee (a small price to pay). He dragged up another chair and settled in to wait with his friend.

Neal scrubbed at his face. He was exhausted, and his eyes hurt from all of the white (even Sara's skin seemed drained of all color). But, he couldn't close his eyes. Not until she'd opened hers and proved that she wasn't another Kate. Another version of the same painting.


	3. Black

Sara didn't want to open her eyes. Whether to Heaven or Hell or empty nothing (and what other options were there?), she didn't know and she didn't care; she was perfectly comfortable drifting here. For the first time in her workaholic career, she felt rested and comfortable, and she wanted to stay in that place. 

She looked down at herself, curious to see what a dead woman wore (looking down with her eyes closed; now that was a trick). She was somewhat disappointed to find herself in the same heels, tan dress-pants, and bloodstained white blouse. She could see the bullet hole in it too, now, burned black around the edges. Crap! Even in death, her favorite shirt was ruined. 

She felt (ignored) a brief tug in her chest as she studied the bullet hole. Out of nowhere she found herself treating it as an investigation – as if she was still alive – trying to deduce caliber, the angle of the shot, the reasons of the shooter. She would bet that back in the real world, Neal and Mozzie were doing the same thing (They'd enlist Peter too, if they were smart). They would be going over every square inch of the crime scene, looking for clues, hunting down her killer. She'd seen Neal's determination after Kate's death; she liked to imagine that he would do the same for her. 

There was another twinge in her chest, and she felt herself pull in a wheezy breath (did ghosts breathe?). She pushed it away, trying to focus. She hoped that Neal did find the guy who did this to her, both for closure for him and vengeance for herself. She would be honored, touched if he took losing her as hard as he had Kate; but the better part of her wanted him to be happy, to have peace, to – 

_Hey!_ If that pulling didn't stop, she might just have to haunt a few people. She was trying to think, she didn't have the energy to be fighting off pain, too. But the tugging grew even stronger, and as it did she started to slip. She reached out instinctively for something to anchor her, but there was nothing to grab. There was no way that she could stop it as she was dragged (kicking and screaming) out of the empty space.

Sara's eyes flew opened, and she squeezed them shut again almost instantly, sucking in a breath that made her whole body ache. Okay. Breathing and a bright white room. That meant Heaven, right? That was interesting (hadn't expected that). She cracked her eyes opened again and saw that it was not wholly white. Off to the left, she saw a blurry figure with dark hair and a gray t-shirt. She blinked several times, eyes adjusting, until she could make out a strong jaw, a worried face, blue eyes. 

“Neal?” she tried, thought it came out a moan. He was on his feet immediately, reaching over to hit the call button for the nurse (Nurse. Hospital?).

She tried again, wincing, and this time he responded, tripping over his words as he tried to say everything at once and before the nurse arrived. Sara only caught about a third of of his words, but she understood that he was _apologizing_. Of all things! As if it was his fault that there was a hole in her chest (Speaking of, ouch! Breathing hurt). Idiot. If he'd shot her in her bed last year, _that_ would have been his fault. He had no hope of controlling a sniper on a rooftop. 

That was the logical part of her brain reasoning. But the rest of it (the part scared of the opened shades on the window that gave a clear line of sight) was wary. Two attempts on her life in his presence was not mere coincidence. It couldn't be, right? That part of her was starting to feel that maybe his apologies had a point, after all. 

The nurse came in, poked and prodded and generally got in the way. But between seconds Sara sneaked glances at Neal's stricken face again. He had dark circles under his eyes (how long had it been since he'd slept?) and stubble on his cheeks. He looked haggard, careworn, broken. 

Digging deep, Sara couldn't find quite as much sympathy for him as she should have.

_fin._


End file.
